October 25, 2004

• An NPD Day

  Greyfox paid us a visit today. Technically, he lives here.  He has
  been away for the summer, living in a little cabin alongside the flea
  market strip at Felony Flats, where he runs his little roadside
  stand.  This is his mailing address, and people who see us
  together at meetings when I go to town often assume that we live
  together.  He lives with a cat.  I live with two cats, a dog
  and my son Doug.  When Greyfox blows in, it turns whatever peace
  we may have here into turmoil.

  Doug asked me after I’d told him today that Greyfox was coming out, so
  the kid should shovel out “his” side of the driveway as well as get the
  snow out from around my car, whether the Old Fart would be in
  hustle-bustle mode today.  I said honestly that I didn’t
  know.  I hadn’t asked him his plans or whether he would be on a
  tight schedule.  I tend not to ask such questions, because NPD
  (that’s narcissistic personality disorder, for the uninitiated)
  explains everything in exhaustive, exhausting, time-consuming
  detail.  After all these years, I figure that Greyfox will tell me
  more than I need to know anyway, so I seldom ask unless there’s a
  compelling need to know.

  He called from the supermarket in town, left a message on the internet
  answering machine saying he had some food related questions, and for me
  to call him right back.  I did, and he asked if Doug would like
  some of the cheap frozen pizza that’s on sale, and asked again about
  whether he needs bread or not since the bread is on sale at a good
  price.  I’d told him yesterday Doug has plenty of bread.  He
  tries so hard to “sell” us whatever is on sale.   I forgot to tell
  him that I’m out of bananas, low on goat milk and the wheat-free bread
  I eat.  He, of course, didn’t ask about any of that because it’s
  not on sale at a good price.  No big deal.  I have other
  things to eat and will be in town again on Thursday to drive the rehab
  van to the NA meeting.

  He called again en route and left the message on the internet answering
  machine that he wanted steak and squash to eat while he was here. 
  Great!  I wished he had told me last night, or even earlier today,
  so I could have taken some steak out of the freezer.  I took the
  frozen steak out and put it on top of the big pot of water (named
  Kermit) on top of the woodstove, to thaw.  Of course, it was still
  frozen when he got here.  I asked when he came in how long he
  planned to be here.  He said, “two hours and five minutes.” 
  I said the steak probably wouldn’t be thawed by then.  He
  reluctantly said he might be able to stay longer.

  I had already started wondering what drugs he was on, and asked
  him.  The second time I asked, more pointedly than the first, he
  said, “nothing”.  So I rephrased the question:  “no
  stimulants, no painkillers?”  Then he looked at his watch and
  finally said the stimulants had already worn off and the painkillers
  were probably worn off, too.  That was supposed, I suppose, to get
  him off the hook for telling me he wasn’t on any drugs in the first
  place.   It was evident that most of his disordered consciousness
  was a combination of NPD and low blood sugar.  He wanted that
  steak right now.  I suggested that he eat an apple to hold him a while.

  Next, we had one of those quintessential NPD conversations.  He
  asked if Doug and I would give him our permission to order some “free
  introductory offer” thingies in our names as well as his own two names
  (the legal one and Greyfox).  I’ll give him this much
  credit:  he asked.  He has done that before, signed us up for
  CD clubs, imported coffee, and such, without our knolwledge. 
  After the bills started coming in, I gave him hell about it and told
  him never to do that again.  So he asked.

  Rather than just take my simple “no” for an answer, he took
  narcissistic injury and had to know why.  My reasons were not good
  enough for him, and he ended up in a huff.  Saying with a pout,
  “Well, if you’re not willing to help me make a couple of
  bucks….”  Then he grabbed the thawing steaks off the woodstove
  and started for the kitchen, asking if it was okay to refreeze them.

  I shouted after him something to the effect that he was letting his NPD
  get out of hand and he needed to take a good look at his
  behavior.  That’s what I’ve contracted to do for him, confront the
  pathological behavior.  He came back from the kitchen and put the
  steaks back on top of Kermit.  Then he went out and brought in the
  shipment of rocks that he’d picked up at the post office.  As we
  unpacked rocks, we discussed ethics.  I pointed out that I know
  that ethics are not carved in stone, that everyone’s are different, and
  his set is very different from mine.  I added that he has no right
  to try and impose his ethics on me.

  The meal went predictably.  After I had cleared off all the
  impedimenta he had piled onto the kitchen range when he came in– all
  the groceries, a newspaper, some videos and empty pill bottles from the
  med packs that I make up for him– I got started cooking.  As I
  was marshalling my forces, I asked him if he wanted baked potato with
  that.  He said no.  Then when he found out I was doing one
  for me, he wanted one, too.  The same thing happened with the
  veg.  He didn’t want any, he said, so I asked Doug if he wanted
  green beans or spinach.  He opted for the beans, and of course
  Greyfox ate some of them.  Both of his “no” answers, I assume,
  were either some residual part of his little NPD snit operating, or
  were made on the theory that by saying no he’d get out of here
  sooner.  Irrational sense of time pressure is an NPD trait… it’s
  one he’s got in great severity.

  After we ate, he brought in a tiny TV he’d scrounged from the dumpster
  at Felony Flats.  He wants me to look through my collection of
  electronic parts and see if I have an AC power adapter that will work
  for it.  I tried to tell him on the phone when he first mentioned
  it that it would be a big job, going through all my parts. It has been
  a while since I’ve actually talked to Greyfox.  Lately, I’m just
  talking to NPD.  I asked him what type of adapter it needed: 
  how many volts, what sort
  of terminal, postive or negative tip.  He said it was nine volts
  (today I discovered it’s actually twelve volts), couldn’t describe the
  terminal and hadn’t the vaguest idea what
  “positive or negative tip” meant.  I tried then on the phone to
  tell him that I’d just
  got that stuff sorted out and packed away, and I’d look for it if I
  knew what to look for, but none of that has any
  significance to NPD. I started again here today, trying to tell him it
  was a big project.  I said, “I have this big tub stuffed full
  of…” and he said, “Where…?”

  I cut in and told him I was not going to tell him where.  I would
  rather look through it myself than try to put it back together again
  after he has torn through it.  I’ve known him a long time, and
  know him too well.  We talked about it a lot more than should have
  been necessary.  We finally established that his urgent need for
  the adapter was bullshit, that he doesn’t even know if the TV works,
  and only wants the adapter so he can sell the TV — if it works. 
  He was just rushing around, trying to get me caught up in his
  hustle-bustle mode.  On this occasion, I was stronger than 
  his psychopathology.

  There was some more, a big box of stuff he doesn’t really want and has
  no room for in his cabin, but wants me to find room for here. 
  Right now it is still on my bed.  As Greyfox was leaving and Doug
  was loading empty water jugs and buckets in my car for our trip to the
  spring, I told Doug to send Greyfox back in.  We needed to
  talk.  We spent maybe five or ten minutes confronting the
  NPD.  He tried to get defensive, but had the consciousness to
  realize that was what he was doing.  He pulled a lame excuse about
  not being able to focus on his healing process because he is so focused
  on “material shit.”  I had to point out that he wasn’t truly
  taking care of business, that he was running on the NPD autopilot,
  doing the hustle, looking really busy working harder not smarter. 

  I restated something that really needed saying, about the way he makes
  stupid plans and then lets the plans rule his life instead of keeping
  flexible and living life on life’s terms.  His business is
  weather-dependent and he has missed almost every single good weather
  day for a couple of months because they did not conform to his
  plans.  He admitted that the paper said today was supposed to be
  the best day this entire week, but he’d planned to take off and come up
  here so that’s what he did.  I pointed out once again that he
  hasn’t the power to control the weather and would do better to try and
  conform to it.  He nodded, looked serious, and left.  He
  always does that.  Maybe he was listening this time.  Who
  knows?

  He was taking my outgoing mail with him.  As a parting shot he
  pointed to the Elvis Presley stamp on the package of merchandise I’m
  sending out, and asked me if I had any more of them around.  He
  claimed that he had asked me before and I’d told him they were all
  gone.  These were from a block of “old” (old-ish) stamps some
  other boothie at Felony Flats had sold him for less than face
  value.  He was mistaken about what I had said when he asked. 
  What had happened was this:  he brought them home and gave them to
  me.  I asked if they were to keep or to use as postage.  He
  was noncommittal as he often is, saying they were probably “worth
  something,” and so I didn’t use them right away.

   When I started running out of postage, I’d told him and rather
  than buying more postage at the time he said to go ahead and use the
  Elvises.  Then when he found out they were worth about a buck and
  a half each, he had asked me if I still had them.  I told him then
  that there were still a few left, but that on his instructions I’d been
  using them for postage.  I asked if he wanted what was left, and
  he said no, go ahead and use them.  Today, I asked again if he
  wanted the one I still have.  Again, he said no.  I wonder
  when he’ll decide he does want it, or if he’ll just let me use them all
  up so he can have something else to blame me for.

  After he left, I plopped on the bed.  I said to Doug, “That was
  horrible.  In a few more weeks, he’ll move back in for the winter
  and we’ll have to deal with him every day.”  He nodded and made
  sympathetic noises, then he said, “Maybe… on weekends… we could
  render him unconscious.”  Then we laughed and got the rest of our
  gear together for the water run.  I think Greyfox left his gloves
  here, because I found a strange pair of gloves when I was looking for
  mine.  When we got in the car, Doug noticed that he had left the
  NA briefcase, which holds our group’s collection of literature for
  sale, plus the order forms, the lit fund, etc.  It was one of the
  reasons he came up here today.  Impracticality is also an NPD
  trait, but I still think some of this shit is from the drugs he’s on.

  I
  took the camera to the waterhole with us, but the only pic I took this
  trip was this one in the driveway on the way out, with Granny
  Mousebreath riding on Doug’s shoulders.  At least we got to the
  spring and back before dark.  Other than that, it wasn’t such a
  pleasant water run.

  Mostly, anyway, I stayed warm.  I’d been wearing velour pants
  around the house over long johns.  I put on a pair of jeans over
  the two pairs of pants, and wore my parka.  I wore heat-reflective
  glove liners and the mystery gloves (presumably Greyfox’s), but took
  off the gloves for a better grip when I was filling the buckets.

  We are not yet in winter mode.  We forgot to take the Mutt® ice
  chipper with us, and could have used it to cut some steps in the icy
  slope and chip the ice off the freight pallet we stand on to fill the
  jugs.  I slipped as I bent to put the cap on a jug.  When I
  went down I took the jug over with me and soaked one glove liner. 
  I spent the rest of the time being thankful it isn’t really cold
  yet.  It was in the twenties today.  That’s twenties above
  zero Fahrenheit.  Not life-threatening, not a serious hazard with
  wet gloves as it will be when it gets really cold.

  My camera stayed in my pocket the whole time.  Two other trucks
  pulled up while we were filling buckets, neighbors waiting their turn
  at the spring.  That and the wet glove liner made something as
  frivolous as photography seem unattractively foolish.  I just got
  the job done and came home to blog.  I did say, up there in the
  header, “this is where I spill my guts.”  I don’t know what I’d do
  without this therapeutic outlet.  Thanks, guys.
  

  • 11:22 pm
  • 9 Comments